The Naming of the Shrew
by cameraman
Summary: The Mona Lisa goes missing, as does the Head Curator of the Louvre. Characters from every book, film, comic, etc that you could possibly think of, become involved in the attempt to find it. Hilarity, as they say, ensues. I think.


This is an attempt to take my own creation and spice it with as much from everywhere as possible. It is, therefore, not really a fanfic, but what I call a ficfan. Needless to say it is completely insane, which is not the same as saying that I am, just that this particular work happens to be somewhat abstract, in the Robert Rankin tradition. Oh, and when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere. You have been warned. See how much you can spot, coz a lot of it will be quite subtle. I can be clever like that sometimes. Right, on with the show.

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**ONE**

Polynasia is a terrible name to give to a boy. Nevertheless, this is exactly what Mr and Mrs Andrews, in their infinite wisdom, bestowed upon their infant son whilst he was too young to do anything about it. Much later, he would sue them successfully for child abuse and inflicting cruel and unusual punishment. They got 15 years each, solitary confinement and were ordered to pay court costs and £34,000,000 in damages to their traumatised son. But that's another story.

Around about the same time as Polynasia Andrews was scoring another point for the English Justice System, the Mona Lisa went missing. Not the painting, that was still hanging behind its protective bullet-proof glass (in case some extremist in a fit of righteous fury decided to blast hell out of that Western/Capitalist/Infidel/Spawn-of-Satan idol) in the Louvre, we're talking about the figure _in_ the painting. Before an astonished crowd of thousands, she just upped and left, that mysterious smile still playing on her lips, leaving the world with another reason to marvel at an essentially mediocre piece of art.

The curators were baffled. Baffled were the curators indeed, for though all of them had read the Harry Potter series (and let's face it, who hasn't?) they all knew that portraits don't just walk out of pictures, I mean that's just pure fantasy, right? Apparently not. For now they had a real, live (or so it would seem) walk-out to contend with and, if possible, explain. Which was a bit of a pain really, because some of them were looking forward to a nice week or two in Nice and being held responsible for the wreck and ruination of the most expensive piece of art in the world can tend to put a slight dampener on things like that.

The Head Curator, a thin man with a moustache of similar qualities who was prone to wearing the odd black and white striped shirt and bobbled beret (with optional strings of onions/garlic) and was called Jacques (aren't they all?), paced up and down his office in a manner known to those in the know of such things as frustrated. He lifted up his left foot by way of the subconscious manipulation of various leg muscles, placed it in on the floor a short distance from its previous position, and repeated the exercise with his right. Every so often he stopped, stroked a thin finger across a pointed chin and went "hmm". The office was a small room, whitewashed and blue carpeted. It contained all the usual office apparel: a broad wooden desk behind which was positioned a black patent leather swivel chair; a number of comfortable looking chairs dotted around; a filing cabinet which no-one really knew the purpose of, seeing as the whole museum had been digitalised years ago and, as such, a state-of-the-art (geddit?) computer sat on the desktop; a water-cooler; a two-seater sofa in one corner; and, for some inexplicable reason, a tall, mahogany Louis XIVth wardrobe with all that fancy scrolling and brocading and stuff to inform those who would view it (Jacques the Head Curator, his wife, secretary (not what you think! She saw it when she brought his coffee and digestive biscuits in) friends, all the other curators with their sub-curators and the cleaning lady) that they were not setting eyes on a mere cupboard. Seated on the chairs, looking apprehensive, were the rest of the curators. They stared at him expectantly. He paused in his pacing, nodded to no-one in particular, licked his lips and spoke. "Ma frenz," he said (though why, being French and speaking to a room full of French people, he said it in English with a comic French accent will remain a mystery), "eet seems lak we 'av a leetle problem." The audience duly nodded and each silently noted to themselves that, at the first available opportunity, they would nominate this for the All France Understatement of the Year Competition. The Head Curator sat down behind his desk, although he failed to include his chair in the act. Suppressed laughter spread through the room as, fingers clutching the edge of his desk, scrambling for purchase, he attempted to haul himself upright. Eventually, after much grabbing and pulling, he found himself vertical, and promptly proceeded to sit upon his beloved swivel chair. He breathed deeply, leaned back and gave the chair an experimental twist. It swivelled, and grinning like pyromaniac in a firework factory, he span round to face his staff. "So, eez zer eneewan 'ere 'oo 'as ze slahtest clue? Ah meen, zat eez wah Ah 'av called zees meeting, eez eet not?"

One of the curators raised a nervous hand.

"Oui?"

The curator, whose badge identified him as Gerard Lumière, who would be glad to assist you, coughed. "Well, all of us, Ah meen ze ozer curators," (because a running gag can be contagious),"we 'av wondered what ze wardrobe eez doing een your offeece. Ah mahself believe zat it may be a portal to anozer realm, lak Narnia, you know? Zat kind of zing." Jacques the Head Curator (who had no surname, his name was Jacques the Head Curator, after having been Jacques the Deputy Head Curator, and before then Jacques the Curator of Comically Shaped Artefacts. Before _that_ he was just Jacques, or, as some were wont to call him, Just Jacques) smiled to himself. "Do not zink zat Ah 'av not 'ad zees possibility cross mah mahnd. To zees end, Ah conducted a searché of said wardrobe. Be assured zat eet eez nozing more zan an ordinary wardrobe." He walked over to the piece of furniture in question, placed both hands on elegantly wrought handles, and flung the doors open. The inside was musky and looked bigger than the outside suggested. The outside suggested a wardrobe about seven feet high, five across, and two deep. The _inside_ suggested a small auditorium. There was an array of large ceramic sinks on the left-hand wall, with ornately carved taps, one of which, when seen close up, might have looked, to the discerning eye, a teensy-weensy bit like a serpent. Jacques the Head Curator coughed lightly. "So per'aps eet eez slahtly intéresant, but, for all intents and purposes, eet eez a perfectly ordinary wardrobe." He paused for thought, lips pursed. "Oh, and Ah later deescovéred zat if you talk to zee sink in Parseltongue, which Ah taught mahself from a book ('Parseltongue for Dummies™'), eet will open to zee Chambre de Secréts in Beauxbatons, where zey keep a 'umongous rabid Guinea-Pig zat can kill by its squeak. Ah killed eet, protecting mah ears wiz cotton wool, by feeding it curry, which eet ate and, due to zee incompatibiltée of curry wiz zee rodent digestive system, exploded. Zee heir of Slyzerin was not best pleased, Ah can tell you, eet quite ruined his robes (Yves Saint-Laurent, by zee way, black, pinstripe, very nahce). Exploded Guinea-Pig can be quite a tough stain to remove, Ah am informed. But, apart from zat, eet eez, and Ah repeat, A PERFECTLY NORMAL WARDROBE. Ok?"

A wave of incredulity swept around the room, drowning even the most gullible in its wake. Jacques the Head Curator made a curious motion with his left arm, as if he was trying to bend his elbow backwards, and said, "Well, ok, so zere was no Chambre, but I can speak Parseltongue you know. Ah med zee bit about zee Chambre up, so zat you would not be shocked about zee whole insahd outsahd zing. And Ah 'av checked to determahn wezzer zere is a portal to anozer dahmension. It does not exist. Observe closely, s'il-vous-plaît."

He stepped inside the wardrobe and made his way towards the back, polished shoes clicking on the wooden floor, releasing small mushrooms of dirt that had been carefully built up over the centuries. As the dust revelled in its new-found freedom, it was joined by brushed-away cobwebs and a small colony of moth-balls, not unsurprisingly moth-eaten and worn through. A minute into his little perambulation, Jacques reached the sinks, at which point he stopped, made a series of strange hissing sounds, turned to the room full of expectant curators and shouted, "See! No Chambre!" before carrying on. Approximately thirty-two seconds later, he stood facing the back wall of the wardrobe. A hush fell on the already quiet office. It was so quiet that not only could you hear a pin drop; you could hear its pathetic screams as it fell. Jacques the Head Curator lifted a right arm, attached to which was, as per all the usual rules of correct anatomical design, a right hand. Bending his right elbow, he drew the said hand, now clutched into a fist, back. He took a deep breath and knocked on the wood, which resounded with an expensively dull thud. Disappointment wound its weary way through the hearts of all assembled. In one corner a small moustachioed curator in a dirty trenchcoat with the collar turned up rubbed his chin, stood up and paced a small square, hands clasped behind his back. Jacques the Head Curator turned, arms spread triumphantly, and shouted "See, what did Ah tell you?" He stepped back and rapped three more times on the wood. "There eez nozing!" he crowed exuberantly. Then he dissapeared. The curator in the trenchcoat, who was, unbeknownst to the others, in reality an undercover cop and master of disguise, paused and waved a finger in front of him. "Zer eez," he declared, "a clue in zee room."

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**HERE ENDETH THE FIRST CHAPTER OF THE BOOK OF THE NAMING OF THE SHREW. LEARN IT WELL AND KNOW IT, FOR IT CONTAINETH MUCH WISDOM.**


End file.
